


The Saga Begins

by soupytwist



Category: Strangers With Candy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8840950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupytwist/pseuds/soupytwist
Summary: There are many stories about Chuck and Geoffrey. All of them are true. Mostly.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quietcuriosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietcuriosity/gifts).



> Happy holidays, quietcuriosity!
> 
> All thanks to the beta crew. All of you are funnier than I am, dammit.

Much like Ebola, the rise of Islamic fundamentalism, and Cheez Whizz, Chuck and Geoffrey's relationship was actually Jerri Blank's fault. Neither Chuck nor Geoffrey would ever know it, but perhaps something in their subconscious recognized her influence in their lives. Maybe there was something prophetic in the way so many of the major incidents in all their lives involved a stall in a men's room... or maybe they were all just tiny specks of oddly-smelling dust thrown around by the winds of fate. Who knows.

Unusually for her, Jerri was far away from the scene at the time of the fateful incident. In fact, she'd last been in that bathroom the week before she left for the donkey show in Tijuana. 

Fresh off the bus from Roundclap (an arduous 10 miles away), Geoffrey was full of the joys of fall. He had a smile on his face, a ‘Kick Me’ sign on his back, and an apple in his hand that he had received that morning from himself, as a gift for being such a great teacher. It was just Geoffrey's bad luck that due to financial problems there hadn’t been any janitorial staff since 1962. It was also his bad luck that due to a genetic condition, Geoffrey didn’t have a sense of smell which would have warned him of potential danger. And so Geoffrey innocently pushed open the bathroom door, and his second week at Flatpoint High ended up in the Sucks To Be You Ward of Flatpoint Municipal Hospital.

The first thing Geoffrey saw when he opened his eyes was white. This impression gradually turned into the smiling Caucasian blandness of Principal Whitbread, and behind him, his secretary Miss Overqualified.

“Son, you have to stop ending up in here,” said Principal Whitbread, patting the bedclothes in what he believed was a jovial manner.

“This expression of concern should be taken to mean that we can’t afford the insurance premiums,” explained Miss Overqualified. She scrunched her nose. “And to be fair, this is the third time in less than two weeks.”

“Motorcycle gang, parent-teacher night, dingoes,” agreed Principal Whitbread. “Those, we can understand. Everyone knows parent-teacher nights never end without at least four casualties: last year we lost two teachers and a volunteer Foosball coach. But what happened here?”

“Mmph,” said Geoffrey, who for some reason had been completely packed in cotton wool balls up to his nose.

Principal Whitbread made an ‘explaining things to art teachers’ gesture. “Explicatory measures are in formation but are causing some problems until we can resolve the underlying irregularity.”

“The PTA don't like it either,” explained Miss Overqualified. 

“Mmph?” said Geoffrey.

Principal Whitbread waved a hand. “I know. It’s just that with the deductible incentivization scheme in progress, it’s counter to the ongoing optimization of the scholastic body.”

Geoffrey looked at Miss Overqualified. She shrugged. “Don’t ask me, my PhD is in Ancient Babylonian and I make a tenth of what he does.”

“Mmph,” said Geoffrey, sadly.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got Mr Noblet to cover your classes for at least 36 hours,” said Miss Overqualified. 

There was a strange noise, like someone coughing outside the door to the ward and then regretting it. “Oh, that’ll be him now,” said Principal Whitbread. “Come in, Noblet!”

Chuck entered the room. On Geoffrey’s orientation, he hadn’t met Chuck, as Chuck, at the time suffering from a deep and abiding hatred for all new staff, had been busy pretending to be a squirrel in the woods behind the sports field. Chuck, for similar squirrel-related reasons, had never met Geoffrey.

For both of them, this occasion was initially rather overshadowed by the piles of cotton wool Geoffrey was currently struggling with. 

“Mmph,” said Geoffrey.

“Hello, Geoffrey, I'm Chuck, and to answer your questions, chocolate, Woodrow Wilson's favorite Christmas hat, and yes I did know that,” said Mr Noblet. He turned to include Principal Whitbread, rather like a nervous woodland deer. “I've got some concerns about the cover roster? Such as why I'm on it?”

What Geoffrey saw, as he finally managed to dislodge a lot of the cotton wool balls, was a set of dark eyes and black-rimmed glasses in a surprisingly young face: Geoffrey had recently realized that History teachers hadn't necessarily been _present_ at the events they talked about, but he was still mostly convinced they were born old. Chuck was not. 

Chuck took one look at him, made an indecipherable screeching noise, and fled.

“Huh,” said Principal Whitbread. 

__

Geoffrey's return to work – only slightly delayed by the discovery that he was in fact allergic to cotton wool – didn't go quite as planned. There was no ticker-tape parade led by the Donkettes. There weren't even any inflatable animals, unless you counted Clyde the armadillo in the staffroom, who had apparently escaped from a local zoo enthusiast, which Geoffrey did _not_. He also did not count the stream of students who interrupted his art lessons to tell him about Mr Noblet.

“He tried to tell us about Renaissance nudes four times! Even when I told him we'd already done that last year!”

“He made Patterson cry!”

“He asked us to stare at a bowl of fruit! Not even draw it, just stare at it!”

Geoffrey couldn't countenance anyone not using his carefully designed cover lessons – he'd spent three whole days of finals week making his folder beautiful with inspirational smiley-face stickers. But he had to admire Mr Noblet's teaching methods.

Maybe it was his admiration that kept making him think he saw a pair of black-rimmed spectacles ducking out of sight of a window or hurrying around corners. Just to be sure, he checked that the occasional scurrying noises he heard weren't mice (shudder) or students (worse): there was no sign of either. Geoffrey breathed a sigh of relief. Then he noticed the Chuck-shaped stain on the glass in the art classroom window, and mentally fitted himself for a Sherlock Holmes hat.

There were also the... _things_ that kept appearing.

At first Geoffrey had thought they were from students. After the incident during his time teaching kindergarten in Roundclap, he'd been wary of things wrapped in red and left on his desk with his name on them. He'd been sure it was the football team, or maybe the debate kids (again). But the things kept appearing – a cookie, a balloon, a bottle opener, a 1974 football calendar – and none of them poisoned him or set anything on fire, so he was eventually forced to conclude that they were actual gifts. Even if the pink jockey shorts were kind of weird. Whatever: at least they were the right size.

But the most he ever saw of Chuck was the back of Chuck's head as he disappeared around corners or ducking hurriedly out of sight. It wasn't behavior Geoffrey was used to.

After nearly a month of this, Geoffrey had most of a notebook full of sketches of himself in various fabulous pieces of headgear and a sudden realization that he had to take action. It wasn't enough to leave encouraging notes around the staff room hoping Chuck would read them. (The latest one read I'M REALLY VERY APPROACHABLE with a big picture of Geoffrey on it. He was pleased with it: four people had mentioned it to him at lunch, which made it his most successful artwork to date.) Geoffrey was going to need to be a bit more direct.

“So, Chuck, I'm sure you're surprised to find me here.”

“Not really. I got your note.” Chuck waved the note, carefully placed on his desk earlier that day by a student Geoffrey had bribed with Milk Duds. He was also carefully not looking at Geoffrey.

“The note says _don't_ meet me under the bleachers at 2 o'clock,” said Geoffrey, smugly. He knew reverse psychology! He was definitely the greatest.

“Oh.” Chuck looked somewhat put out that he hadn't considered this.

“But it's nice here, right? It's private,” said Geoffrey. He made a quick frantic shooing motion at the couple of tenth-graders who appeared behind Chuck's head. Chuck appeared not to notice: he was doing some sort of nervous shuffle. It was oddly charming.

“Sure.”

“I liked your gifts!” said Geoffrey, after a pause, remembering that he'd been told once that other people liked compliments too, and also that the gifts really _hadn't_ exploded. “Especially the calendar.”

“Oh, that? That was actually for Claire,” said Chuck. “My wife. I was wondering where that went. I apparently missed her birthday six months ago. Could I get that back? Thanks.”

“...okay,” said Geoffrey, as Chuck took it back from wherever Geoffrey had been hiding it about his person. He was a bit sad: there were a lot of objectively artistically important football players in that calendar. 

“Great!” Chuck whisked the calendar away out of sight. 

Geoffrey suddenly realized that Chuck had actually been speaking to him. Multiple words at a time, mostly in some sort of order! Unfortunately, Chuck suddenly seemed to realize this too. He had a tendency to look a bit like a startled chipmunk accosted by a water balloon, Geoffrey noticed.

“Um, I gotta - go - someplace - ” said Chuck, and ran away.

Geoffrey slapped a bleacher.“God dammit!”

__

There was, however, definite improvement. The next couple of weeks continued with gifts still appearing on Geoffrey's desk, and Chuck's face at his window was still _mostly_ followed by disappearing around the nearest corner, but there were also occasional conversations in the staff room, even if they did mostly revolve around who had lost the pepper spray this time. 

Geoffrey even got Chuck to stand next to him at the ritual burning of the exam papers, by the cunning means of elbowing the Spanish teacher out of the way and waving at Chuck until he had to. 

Principal Whitbread threw some more exam papers onto the fire. Everyone cheered .

After the bonfire, when the cheerleaders had cleaned the masks away, Iris Puffybush had put out the remaining fires, and everyone had gone back to teaching or whatever, Chuck was nowhere to be seen. Geoffrey decided he was (mostly) resigned to going home to his apartment and practicing his acceptance speeches, and pondered the order he should thank his early childhood pets. This occupied his thoughts so much he completely missed Chuck hiding behind a tree.

“Holy macaroni, Chuck, you scared me!” Geoffrey stared for a second, as he realized something. “Also? You're holding that toy lion... really tight.”

“Rory gives me confidence,” muttered Chuck, but slightly loosened his grip. Slightly.

“Oh,” said Geoffrey. “Sure.” He patted Rory on the head.

“Geoffrey, do you...” Chuck looked away, seemingly stricken. “Do you ever...pretend?”

“Of course!” said Geoffrey. What did pretending have to do with anything? “Are you...asking me to pretend something? I can do that. I'm good at pretending.”

In Geoffrey's imagination, being kissed up against a tree involved a lot less splinters in the ass, but he didn't complain. Much.

___

Geoffrey's life suddenly involved a lot fewer gifts turning up on his desk and a lot more of Chuck muttering “Pretending!” and dragging him into the nearest closet, classroom, or dumpster. Geoffrey was not a fan of the dumpster, but Chuck seemed weirdly into it, so whatever. Geoffrey wasn't going to be the fussy one here. That was definitely Chuck.

What with one thing and another, they ended up in the Principal's office. Chuck declared that since Principal Whitbread had been fired for “gross incompetence”, “setting exam papers on fire”, and “stealing a bunch of the school library funds”, it was the safest place on school grounds. Under the desk was also surprisingly roomy, and the carpet was definitely the best they'd found yet.

“Chuck, I think we need to-”

“If the next word is 'talk', Geoffrey, I-”

That was as far as they got before they were interrupted by a tall, bald, black man peering under the desk.

“You! And apparently you!” this vision boomed, pointing at them both in turn. “Are you teachers? What are you doing under my desk? _Is_ this my desk?”

Chuck and Geoffrey looked at each other in horror. In that moment, Geoffrey learned that they didn't need to talk after all, because they instantly reached the same conclusion. They turned, surreptitiously doing up their shirts, as one. 

“We don't know, we've got amnesia!”


End file.
